The Long Stormy Delivery

Last night we spent nearly 10 hours with the other set of prospective grandparents and our younger daughter in the tiny waiting room of the hospital, waiting for our twin grandbabies to be born.  We brought a Birth Day cake with two candles on it, each one was a zero, and of course roses for our daughter.  I anticipated the babies would be here quickly, and we'd eat chocolate cake right after dinner.  

Nobody knew what sex the babies were, and we were mighty eager to meet them.  If one was a boy, he would be knighted with the name of John Burns Logan the Fifth.  If one was a girl, she would be named after the two grandmas.  Curiosity made us weak in the knees.  

Outside, it was storm-ageddon.  Pounding rain and wind howled through the city streets as our daughter struggled and labored to bring forth.  Traffic backed up and stood at a standstill on clogged freeways and flooded streets as the hours dragged on.  The unrelenting rain was patiently swept off windshields by dutiful wipers, back and forth, back and forth, as the prospective grandparents stood, sat, walked, drank coffee, stood, sat, and walked.  Wind carried the clouds through the heavens as our prayers reached out.

When the hours bound yet another chain of impatience around our ankles, a text message would vibrate the cellphones like an eager hacksaw sawing them off.  Announcing milestones in the process kept our sanity.  Up and down we’d walk again, getting more coffee, declaring it good, and forgetting to drink it.

Around 1:36AM, looking at the clock I got chills and tingles.  I told my husband the baby was here.  I knew it.  Turns out the first one was born at 1:38.  A short time later, we got the text that both babies were here, healthy, and great.  But there was no mention of names yet, as the new father wanted to walk into the waiting room and make the announcement of who and what they were.

Two more excruciating hours went by.  I felt like a dog waiting for master to get home, drilling my eyes on the doorway, WILLING him to walk through it. Nope.  He did not appear.  Tick, tock, tick, tock. 

It was now 3:30AM.  The rain had stopped, the wind had calmed down, and there was a hush.  Little breezy puffs outside conducted the leaves in a lullaby, and a weary new father appeared in the door frame.

I had been wondering for days how he was going to say it, and he simply said: “A boy and a girl.”

Every single one of us screamed, and were glad later there was no one around but a few nurses.

Of course we got to hold them for a little while, hug our tired daughter and son-in-law, and take the precious pictures we will always cherish.

We didn’t stay too long, knowing the new family needed to rest.  As we walked to our car, a sweet little waxing moon beamed down on us, ready to catch the dreams of newborns. 

I am so happy.  So truly, truly happy.  Congratulations, kiddos.

The Woman at the Well

The woman at the well is a Samaritan.  She came to the well at midday, it is thought, in order to avoid the shame of meeting other women, who normally came in the evening and morning.  Jesus breaks cultural and ethnic taboos in speaking to her.  As the discussion progresses, the woman asks astute theological questions and responds intelligently to Jesus.  For the first time in the book of John, Jesus both reveals his messiahship and uses the “I am” self-designation that characterizes the chapter of John.  The woman returns to her village and shares what she has learned of Jesus, and leads many Samaritans to believe in him—thus in effect fulfilling the role of the first evangelist.  The woman at the well is, in fact, one of the most theologically informed persons in John.  She knows the regulations about ritual purity, ancestral traditions of Israel, the necessity to worship at a valid temple, and the expectation of a Messiah.  As a discussion partner, Jesus takes her as seriously as he did Nicodemus in the preceding chapter.

Yet even today commentators view her as “unclean”, a woman of loose morals.  Perhaps we can gain a higher view of her, as Jesus did, and in so doing, find something liberating for ourselves.

First, is this woman really someone of loose morals?  Why we have perceived her as such? 

Commentators have assumed that the woman came to draw water at the hottest time of the day because she was deliberately avoiding the company of other women.  I would hate to have my morals impugned because I occasionally go to the grocery store late at night.  That she happened to be there right when Jesus was, could have been the result of divine guidance rather than shame.

Why ever did Jesus ask about her husbands?  Speaking of biological and marital ties is uncharacteristic of Jesus, who said “call no man your father upon the earth” (Matt 23: 9), and that one day we would no more marry nor be given in marriage (Luke 20:35).  Therefore, let us examine the word “husband”.  The conversation would have been carried out in Aramaic, not Greek.  In translating Aramaic to Greek, the word for “owner” is often translated as husband.  But could Jesus have really meant “owner” instead of husband?  He might have been referring to a slave owner.  But false gods, addictions, obsessions, and cults can also be our owners.  Could Jesus have been speaking about these and not a male human?  “You have been owned by five false gods, and the one you have now is not your owner,” might be closer to what Jesus meant, if we consider this translation.

If Jesus were talking about husbands, the woman responds out of context by launching into a discussion about places of worship.  But her comment is not a disjointed change of subject if they are discussing false gods.  Consider, if you will, that she had been trying different religions because she was a religious seeker, looking for the true religion.  There were many different cults in that time, such as the Egyptian cult of Isis.  If she had sought out five cults and was unhappy with the one she is associated with now, her answer about where the Jews say one must worship makes perfect sense.  Jesus then discusses at length the true worshipers and that they must worship in spirit and in truth. 

When the woman goes back to her village, people listen to her.  This would be more likely if she was known as religiously educated, rather than if she were a woman of loose morals who society wanted nothing to do with.  John later says that the Samaritan villagers believed because of the woman’s testimony.

In the book of John, women are depicted in unconventional roles.  The woman at the well is an evangelist.  In chapter 11, Martha seems to be conducting the funeral activity of her brother.  Mary Magdalene ventures out alone at night.  Women in this chapter do not relate to Jesus by the mediation or permission of men.  Jesus never uses the term apostles in John, only disciples, which includes men and women.  In John, no woman is shown as resisting Jesus, failing to believe, deserting or betraying him.

In sum, the book of John has communities with strong women who held positions of leadership.  The earliest times of Christianity were often more egalitarian than we view them.  Perhaps we are also putting limitations on ourselves, viewing ourselves in positions of unwanted responsibilities or submission.  What do we make a god out of?  Stress?  Food?  Money?  Let us listen to the words of Jesus as he speaks in the manner of this new interpretation, for it can extend across the centuries.  “…the false god you have now is not your real owner.”

How Pauline the Horse Got the Children to School

Pauline had been a very good work horse and lived in the Ukraine in the 1920’s, a time and place when people still used horses in the fields, and to pull wagons into town.  She had been a strong, willing worker.  

Now Pauline was getting on a bit, too old to pull plows or much of anything, really.  The soldiers that came and took good horses passed her by.  But she was still able to throw good foals, so she stood around gestating and eating what hay could be spared for her.  She was patient and kind, like work horses are.

Spring in the Ukraine brought sloppy mud, renown for stopping armies.  Treacherous mud, well-nigh impassable. Some families had to keep their children home from school, as the children would sink up to their ankles in it, and loaded farm wagons would sink to their axles.

Pauline would not be stopped by mud.  Her mighty legs had been through many muddy fields and if a horse could scoff, you might have seen her lifting her eyebrows at the cart horses that could not make it through the streets. 

The children in the Warkintin family were able to go to school, because Pauline could get them there.  The eldest brother, Henry, who didn’t go to school anymore, went into the barn, put a halter on Pauline and led her out to the farmhouse.  The four children who attended school climbed up on a step stool and then on to the wide back of Pauline.  Arms around each other, they squeezed together in the coats and scarves, holding their lunch pails.

“Take the children to school Pauline,” said Henry.

Pauline plodded out of the farmyard and up the muddy street.  She sank to her pasterns in the mud, a familiar event from years in muddy fields.  She pulled her hooves from the muck one after the other, slowly working her way down to school.  Pauline knew where to go.  She aimed right for the porch of the school where the kids could slide off without getting their feet in the mud.  At that point, the lunch pails opened and carrots were produced for sweet Pauline.

“Go home now,” they told her, patting her soft nose.  She’d blow warm breath on them.

Off Pauline went.  When she got home, another carrot was waiting from Henry.

In the afternoon this was repeated.  Pauline was sent off on her own to the schoolhouse to collect the children. Without fail, she worked her way down to the school. When she pulled up to the porch, the children climbed aboard and Pauline brought them home.

Pauline died sometime in the 1920’s.  But 90 years later, this loyal, kind horse was spoken of by my mother-in-law Susanne who was one of the little kids who rode her to school. 

Kindness, loyalty, and good humor are always rewarded, and this noble horse had all three. 

And carrots too.

The Bright Flames of Leaders

I know a guy who tries to be a leader in a group of teenagers by pushing them around.  Pushing teenagers is like trying to push a string.  They fold up.

Another guy I know works with teenagers too on the Sea Scout Ship Odyssey.  He knows a lot about his field, and will demonstrate it and show them when asked.  He gives them rough outlines on what to do, then reiterates with expectations.  Following that, he turns them loose, becoming the safety net should they need it.  

I’ve been on many a sail as the cook, and love watching these kids come in as giggly fourteen year olds and morph into empowered youth who can sail among the freighters of Puget Sound and around rocks of the San Juan Islands.

Lao Tzu said to start with what people know, then build on that. The goal is to let the people do things themselves.

When our daughters were twelve, they asked for money for all sorts of things, including birthday presents for friends, special shampoo, and snacks.  It was a constant effort to evaluate their needs and the budget.  After much thought and number crunching, we finally came up with a figure that covered their monthly needs, including some mandatory offerings at church, savings, and school supplies.  It wound up being $100 per month.  This seemed like an insane amount of money to turn over to a twelve and fourteen year old.

I imagined in two months we were going to see piles of earrings, new clothes and magazines.

We continued to counsel them and drew out plans for what they might use their money on, but did not insist that they do it.  Well, except for putting some in the basket at church.

Not long after my daughter and I were at the store and she asked to go up the hair care aisle as she needed some shampoo.  I suggested that she purchase a certain brand.  Shocked, she stated, “Mom I can’t afford that brand.  I’ll get this one, it is good enough.”

To me it was like her leaping from one trapeze to the next and successfully completing a triple summersault in mid-air.

One of the obligations on the Odyssey is that the youth have to take command of the boat for 40 hours.  Once they have done that, they are never the same, and I love watching them walk over that bridge.  They light my way by their bright flames.

Of Frogs and Geckos

I hate frogs.  Disgusting little creatures.  They and their reptilian relatives.  Yech.  Slimey little dudes made me throw up one time I was so disgusted by them.  Not everyone feels this way.  My sister-in-law actually kept a frog as a pet.  Ewwwww.  The bowl it lived in was algae green and it slurped up all sorts of things that I take the Lysol after.  But then, she had two boys, and I, of the daughter variety, tended to fluffy white dogs and self-cleaning cats.

Don’t know what this frog’s name was.  He probably had one.  The most remarkable thing about him was that he lived for nine years.  NINE.  N-I-N-E!!  What frog lives that long?  They should have named him Methuselah.

I don’t know what they fed him.  Maybe he ate algae.  Don’t care to find out.  Once some neighbors asked me to take care of their cat when they went out of town.  Sure, I said, be happy to.  Oh, and can you feed the lizard?  I guess, I replied.  I did not know that I had to take live crickets and drop them to their doom in his cage.  I dropped them and pounded up the stairs and out the door.  I did not want to watch some disgusting reptile eat a cricket.  Not that I like crickets either.

We used to live in the Hawaii where they had all sorts of insects and reptiles.  Cockroaches.  Geckos.  People made pets of the geckos because they ate the cockroaches and, well, lesser of two evils.  The geckos were about 5 or 6 inches long in Hawaii.  I didn’t mind them very much, until one time while I was taking a shower, a gecko fell off the ceiling into the tub.  The little gecko did not like landing in the water in the bottom of the tub so to escape the water ran up the inside of my bare naked leg, thus sealing the fate of any further geckos I should ever meet. 

However, after Hawaii, we moved to the Philippines, where the geckos are e-NOR-mous.  I wasn’t about to take any of them on.  But they had to be enormous, because so were the insects.  The great flapping insects there are from The Land of the Lost movie. 

We had a gecko that lived in a hole in the wall around the corner from our apartment.  We’d come home in the evening and creep around the corner for the delicious thrill of seeing this primeval fellow.  He was probably 12-18 inches long.  Hard to see the end of him, but his snout could have easily ingested a Chihuahua.

That was not the most magnificent of reptiles there.  They had monitor lizards.  These black knights in chain link armor would appear out of nowhere.  Once a group of us ladies were taking a walk and spied one right beside the road.  His inward turned feet had two inch claws, and a blue tongue the size of a pencil snaked out to smell us and assess the danger.  I watched in fascination as he scurried into the brush.  Wouldn’t have mind watching him a bit longer, but he was obviously scared.  Poor guy.  Little did he know I was too.

But back to Methuselah the Frog.  One day, the boys of the house had a friend over that did not know that Methuselah lived quite well in a slimey bowl.  He dumped the bowl and frog into the sink and cleaned out the murky mess.  Methuselah died that night.

The boys buried him in the backyard, with tears and snuffling.  They said a prayer and hoped he would go to his algae reward.  As the boys walked away, one of them turned back and looked at the spot where Methuselah lay.  “Love you!” he said.

I never think about this story without being amazed that little frogs can be loved.  Or geckos.  Or people not like us.  Or that bullying girl in eighth grade.   

It’s pretty much a miracle, love is.  Wow.